


Assassins of Annuminas

by XinnLagjin



Category: Assassin's Creed, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Graphic Violence, Multi, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XinnLagjin/pseuds/XinnLagjin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond couldn't save himself, he wondered how Vesta expected him to save a race that had already bit the dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wisman

Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this fic. I am not being paid to do it either, unluckily for me.

* * *

 

Summary: Desmond rarely doubted, questioned, or inquired after anything around him. There wasn't a point when he had neither the time nor the right things to ask. Saving the world, and by proxy saving his own ass took precedent over what the reluctant assassin viewed as details. And right now, Desmond was really beginning to regret not asking those questions.

* * *

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."- Albert Einstein

* * *

**"Vesta talk"  
**

"Speak"

'thought'

* * *

 

Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Dance without you by Skylar Grey, Vermillion by slipknot, Moonlight Sonata in C minor by Beethoven

* * *

 

Chapter One: Wiseman

"What's going on?" Desmond Miles stared up at the projected image of the Roman goddess Vesta. The floor beneath the reluctant assassin's feet shook, as he desperately tried to think of what he was supposed to do to stop a major solar flare from leveling the Earth. Now more than ever, Desmond wondered what he could've possibly done in a previous life to be saddled with this saving the world shit. Even as he shook before the pedestal now housing the apple of Eden, Desmond was knocked to his knees. He had already tried to run back to the entrance, only to be trapped when a seemingly impenetrable black stone rose up from the floor, blocking the door. He had gone back to the pedestal, hoping that removing the apple would stop the cave in that was likely to kill him.

A few nasty shocks later and Desmond desperately resorted to all but pleading for an explanation. The 'goddess' stood before him, impassive and unmoved by the upheaval. It, of course wasn't the fallen deity, but a program meant to execute the last actions on the behalf of her creators'. **"Critical Mass Cascade Failure will breech Earth's atmosphere in ten solar hours, you must leave the orbital horizon before then."** It stared down upon her creators' last hope with the repose of absolute stillness, silently beginning the protocols that were the final step in the creators' schemes. **Log Interface; Run session Abies Alpha 3, subject D. N.1113113.1 preparation**. Ancient frescos fell away from the underground cavern walls, revealing the circuitry being brought to life by the will of its command program.

"No, there has to be another way," Desmond turned with every attention of doing just that, only to be knocked down again as near translucent appendages shot out the floor and wrapped around his wrist and ankles. The temple's manifestation watched as the dark haired assassin struggled, heedless of the platform fell away, revealing the room underneath. **"The magnetic whiplash, the dried oceans, and geographic wide storms cannot be averted by any known means. Even the descendants of those that came before, and their enemies could not advance enough to prevent this happening. And nothing of the current Biosphere will survive, thus the Abies was conceived as a failsafe if the event of failure on your part."**

Still Desmond continued to squirm, even as he was lowered into what looked like a pod. He was held down even as a long needle was cruelly jammed into the base of his skull. **"This planet will start anew, and now so to must your race. You will be all that is left of what once was, a lesson and a teacher for those who must listen."** More pods glided forward in an upright position, revealing six children in various stages of development. Desmond struggled, suddenly blinded by even greater pain. But the horror of the goddess' words, added to his own assumptions was enough to keep the young man from giving into darkness. "Are you out of your fucking omnipotent mind?" It was a valid observation, the Program passively acknowledged. This scenario had been played out more times than her processors were capable of keeping record of, and in each the result was the same.

Neither her creators, nor their adversaries were able to evolve fast enough to counteract the natural occurrence which rendered them all but obsolete, and instead were forced lay what was left of their legacies at the feet of a chosen few, hoping that they would succeed where those who came before hadn't. **"I am unable to change the parameters from which I operate,"** the program admitted. Desmond fought as hard as he could, against the cocktail of drugs flooding his system. Harder even still than when Juno dominated his mind, and guided his blade to the end of murdering Lucy. The former bartender's failure before, fueled his defiance now.

Even though Altair's descendent could feel the futility of it, the reluctant assassin, spat out a foul litany of curses, a forth of which he barely understood himself. It was impressive, and noted by the temple's avatar for later study, and eventual use. The lid of Desmond pod closed sealing him away as he finally succumbed to treatment that pumped through his blood stream. But the goddess's final words would haunt his dreams for the next millennia, **"You are the only one who has learned from the mistakes of those who came before. The future of this progeny lies with you now. Good luck, subject Ducere Novo."**


	2. Fate the fickle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond wakes up to his true nightmare.

 

* * *

 

 

"Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope" -Unknown

* * *

**"Vesta talk"  
**

"Speak"

'thought'

_Past tense_

* * *

 

Musical inspiration for this fic: The Outsider by A Perfect Circle, Kashmir by Led Zeppelin, and Headstrong by Trapt

* * *

 

Chapter two: Fate the fickle

 

It waited for the world to become new again, lingered without a single iota of hurry as the surface burned bone dry of life, entire oceans evaporated, leaving bottomless crevices exposed and aquatic life dead. Chemicals ignited into an uncontrollable blaze, razing the earth with fiery fingers, and noxious fumes polluting the air caught alight, turning it black with burned bodies becoming epidemic vapor. It watched as all fled the surface to escape the carnage their habitat had become. If they were lucky they perished quickly in the death traps they hid in. Anything was better than the sun sickness which wasted away in the brain, and caused skin to blister and peel away. Even starving from lack of food, water, and oxygen was preferable to the slow descent to primordial ooze.

Then came the rain. Glaciers once frozen for untold millennia melted and the few who survive fled again, in the wake of even more dangerous storms, which swamped their' vast underground lairs, and hollow caves with acid floods. The meager bacteria that served as food washed away, or became chocked with tainted water. They still ate it, and some managed to survive it. Still they endured ill-regular weather patterns, dodged volcanic eruptions, and killed whatever and whomever if necessary. But in the end, when all hope was spent and there was seemingly nothing left to exist for, a being of formless power took interest.

Unmoving it observed the amorphous force interact with the destruction that lay waste to the world in its touch. Recalled, even as both the shapeless being and the earth began to resonate with each other, this was not the first time this has occurred. The energy would propel itself through the weakened ozone of the planet, touching, and effectively changing all molecular structure it came in contact with. Even the hand-full of surviving homo-sapiens weren't spared the transformations. It was painful, it was difficult, and it was necessary. As their environment evolved around them from the molecular level up, so too did the survivors.

Their forms were re-crafted through fire, as the structures of their bodies were rearranged to be tempered like metal rather than burned if it was flesh. This "treatment" allowed for the "Ainur" to harmonize with the power giving them life. And from what little of their unconscious minds remained were communicated to it, Eru crafted the rest of Arda to suit the beings it had created. And when the resonance of Eru ebbed, the Ainur took over, intent to create "the vision of Eru" which was given to them in the form of what they perceived as music. Never knowing that they were once the very beings Eru had recreated from their cataleptic memories.

 

* * *

 

 **"Optimal habitation conditions won't be reached in centuries yet"** , Vesta's creation mused clinically still observing the chaos of Arda. And in the black of space, the artificial intelligence compared this convergence to those recorded by its creators. When first those who came before had entered what was known as the Milky Way galaxy, they had observed this phenomenon as it happened to the neighboring red planet. And wanting to gain the knowledge of Biosphereic creation for themselves, set out to track the power which seemingly dissipated after Mars ozone became thick enough to contain its own gravity. They never found it, and instead settled on studying, dissecting, and ultimately destroying all life on the planet.

Surprisingly the formless power hadn't returned, so those who came before moved on. Jupiter was their most important discovery. For when they collapsed the ecosystem of Jupiter, the formless power did return, to create from their destructive curiosity. This time, it was Saturn that was given the gift of life. Again too arrogant to learn from this lesson, those who came before continued their experiment. They moved to Terra, theorizing that the formless power that balanced the planets ability to have a Biosphere was directly linked to the condition of its neighboring planets.

But as powerful and innovative as they were, those that came before were powerful enough to create a planet. At best they could make a focus point from which gravity could be generated. To this end they crafted Terra's moon out of asteroids, and were able to establish enough gravitation pull to cool the earth un-inhabitable molten hot surface. And thus began their greatest experiment, and ultimately their downfall. Without a thought the last surviving visage of the gods of the old world watched.

 

* * *

 

Desmond woke up swinging, which he had been more awake to do so, would acknowledge that wasn't such a smart idea. As it was, he lay in his aquatic prison, coughing up vile curses behind the mask strategically placed over his mouth and nose. He immediately cradled his abused fist after its unfortunate rebound off the translucent shell of the not so surprisingly small confinement. **"Log entry: Date 1M planetary rotations A.E. May 6th of the year 2984 Third Age by reckoning of current population. Subject Ducere Novo is activated."**

Desmond glared as best as he was able through the solution impeding his vision. Everything ached, and his brain was desperately trying to catch up to what his instincts already gauged upon his awakening. He had only the vaguest idea what the fuzzy outline he was glaring at was. "What-" abruptly Altair's descendant was caught in another coughing fit, now registering the dry burn currently stripping his vocal cords of essential soft tissue. The temple's avatar ignored him, as she commanded the solution causing him to float to be drained from his tank.

Feeling himself starting to sink, the dark haired assassin desperately tried to find something to hold onto, only to let out a painful yelp as he felt something rip from his skin. Desmond looked down, and immediately wished he hadn't. Wearing only his birthday suit, the 24 year old could barely make out the reflective ends of thick needles sticking out of his various extremities. Following the quickly widening trail of blood flowing from his right arm, Desmond's gaze fixated on his inner elbow, where he had inadvertently jarred a particularly thick needle loose. **"Moving is ill-advised at this time. It is recommended that you remain stationary until initiation protocol has reached 100% completion."**

Half hysterically Desmond mused the only way this could get any creepier is if the voice giving him instructions had told him to keep his arms and legs within the ride until it came to a complete stop. Once again, the dark eyed man was gripped in another coughing fit, only half aware of his continual descent to the grated bottom of his upright tank. All the while his mind was a canopy of wild, malformed thoughts and emotions urgently gouging bloody strips out of his already splintered psyche. Suddenly his eyes were no longer hindered by the solution that had kept him suspended, and he was finally able to look upon his captor.

She was a dark haired apparition staring at him under a crown of copper curls. The opaque robe draped across her levitating form only added to her ghost-like quality. And the empty gaze now locked with his dumbfounded one was a jarring slap in the face needed to recall his last memories. Lucy, _'Oh god make it stop, please don't make me do this.'_ Being trapped within the Animus by the assassins, _'I want out. Don't you see this is useless, you've fucking bled me dry.'_ Escaping the assassins and dodging Templars was by no means without unrelenting pursuit spent the majority of the time exhausted, and in almost constant injury. _'What was the god forsaken point_? _Don't they get that the world is going to end?_ '

Pushed almost beyond the point of breaking, both from the stress of his ancestors' memories, and weight of his own problems, Desmond gave in to Juno's demand, and went looking for after those who turned away from war. He soon learned that, Vesta was one of the few of her kind that had sympathy for the race that they had created, and ultimately enslaved. She brokered peace between the two factions at the cost of exile, and lost her life when once again her race put their pride before the good of all. But the fallen one had left behind a long legacy of solutions, where her fellow siders of humanity only had warnings.

The former bartender had gone looking for a way to end the mess that his life had become. And he had found it, in the death sentence of the entire human race. "You," Desmond flinched as his feet hit the grates. His legs were unable to hold his weight, and buckled causing them to fold, even as the dark eyed assassin instinctively braced his arms against his plastic prison. The barrier holding him upright fell away, causing Desmond to completely collapse. Harsh breathes echoed the seemingly endless black he occupied. It was only after an untold amount of time that Desmond registered that it wasn't black, cloying his vision, but a sticky mess Bistre mane.

Angrily shoving away the dark mass away from his face, Desmond hissed as the needle imbedded in the back his hand jerked. Painful shock set in, and the assassin too tired to stop the mental fatigue from causing him to mechanically removing the equipment from himself. The temple's artificial intelligence surveyed its charge's vitals, as she observed him removing homo-stasis regulatory equipment. She catalogued every wince, aborted movement and sound that was particularly painful. The assassin would need to be treated for his ails later. Obviously being in stasis for millions of years wasn't agreeing with him. "Where are we," Desmond's voice was a rough croak from complete and utter disuse.

But he still forced himself to voice the question as best he could. It was made infinitely easier with the mask that had been feeding him oxygen was out of the way. The back of his head ached from the length of time the band had held it in place. Idly he wondered just how long he had slept. His body felt almost as alien to him now as it did when he had been unceremoniously been shoved into the Animus for the first time. **"What was once Kione, Gaia, and Terra, and you called Earth, is now called Arda."** Still the calm of shock persisted. "What country?"

" **The land mass has shifted too much for me to make a comparable analysis of our exact location in relation to any country relevant to your understanding"** Suddenly a projection of a map appeared, displaying just how much Desmond's home had transformed. There was nothing, nothing left of the earth that he vaguely knew. None of the continents he knew should be there, weren't anywhere to be found. In horror, his hands stilled in their task of removing the various needles attaching him to tubes of unknown content. "Damn it Vesta give me your closest guess," he snapped after another moment of helpless rage.

" **The closest geographic comparable I can make at this time is southwestern Turkey, boarding what was once the Mediterranean Sea. The sea is now a lake called Nenuial, it feeds two opposing rivers, the one without a name branches to the south on the other side of the hills guarding the lake opposite of our current location. The Brandywine has no such safe guard though we are closer to it."** An indicator flashed on the map of 'not earth' zooming in until it focused on a representation of where their current location was.

 **"It has been roughly 3 million years since you were placed in stasis subject-** "My name is Desmond, use it!" **"Desmond, Abies Alpha landed 7 thousand years ago, and has been buried under the ruins of Annuminas which has been abandoned for 2."** Vesta continued to explain as if the assassin hadn't spoken at all. **"As it stands I will be unable to support my systems for much longer, you must acclimate yourself to your current environment if you are to have any hope of restoring your order."** Not for the first time, Desmond thought that knowing so much sucked out what infinitesimal common sense the computer had been programmed with.

"And exactly how in the hell am I supposed to do that," he hissed forcing himself to stand on coltish legs, grown weak with millennias worth of disuse. "And even, by some miracle I could do this by myself, why would I even want to." Vesta said nothing, just stared with empty eyes as she pointed a translucent finger behind him. Defiant, he turned ready to rip into whatever flimsy excuse Vesta would produce. He choked on the scathing words he wanted to say as he was confronted with the helpless visages of six interred children. "FFFUUUCCCKK MMMEEE."

 

 


	3. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> State of Affairs in Gondor, and Desmond finds out why he isn't primordial sludge.

 

* * *

 

 

One day each of you will come face to face with the horror of your own existence. One day you will cry out for help. One day each of you will find yourselves alone. - Alia, Children of Dune

* * *

**"Vesta talk"  
**

"Speak"

'thought'

 

* * *

 

 

Musical inspiration for this chapter: Broken Sorrow by Nuttin but stringz, I walk alone by Tarja Turunen, and Funhouse by Pink

* * *

 

Chapter 3: Survival

 

 

 

Denethor II newly crowned Stewart of Gondor gazed down at his father’s cold corpse with a sense of apathy. The man may have sired him, but to Denethor he was always Lord Ecthelion II scion of the house Húrin first, and his often harshest critic second. It was often maddening just trying to please the man as a subordinate, let alone receiving Ecthelion’s approval as a son. Still he strived for his father’s affections, becoming more masterful a lord in his own right, and a better leader of men than any of those whom came before him. He had married well, making blood allies of the princes of Dol Amroth, and secured walls of the white city. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

His father’s love still was given to others before himself. His sisters, Alagmariel and Vinyaostiel had wanted for nothing; Ecthelion doted on them greatly well into their majority. He even went so far as to allow them to choose whom they would marry. Denethor scoffed, as daughters to the ruling house of Gondor it was their duty to bring allies to Gondor through marriage, not lay with men beneath themselves for love.  So it was with a fiercely glad heart that he received the news of Alagmariel’s death on her way to meet her betrothed, the lord of Pinnath Gelin. And an even greater joy filled his heart when just a few years later, willful Vinyaostiel disappeared.  

                                                                                                                  

Half-heartedly, Denethor had coordinated routine searches for the younger of his two older sisters. And after 5 years it was finally concluded the Vinyaostiel was dead. It had taken an additional year for Ecthelion’s councilors to convince him of that, but in the end the proud lord conceded. No lady as gently reared as his beloved Vinyaostiel could survive outside Minas Tirith. The perishing of his daughters however did not cause Ecthelion to cling to his only remaining child. If anything, the son of Turgon became more fixated upon giving his affections to those who distinguished themselves in his service, the flee bitten ranger Thorongil was just one in a long line of many that earned the man’s graces.

 

What set Thorongil above the rest, was his very real threat to Denethor’s position as heir apparent. The ranger looked enough like his father, and was beloved enough by the people to seriously be considered for the role. And for many years his anger at his forefather burned hot, and Ecthelion’s love for Thorongil only made it burn hotter. The ranger may have dressed the part of a lord, but Denethor knew, under all that suave was a greedy conniving, glory seeking, street rat from the North attempting to usurp his future as Stewart. But the grave son of Ecthelion had plans of his own in mind, plans that included getting rid of interloping outsider.  But then Finduilas had given him Boromir. And what was once desperate love for his father became disgust.

 

Denethor resolved to never to deprive his own heir what was stolen from him. The dark haired lord became consumed with giving his own son the love that he had been denied all his life to give much thought to either of them. Now with both objects of his loathing gone, Denethor just felt tired. “You are unwell my lord husband, I implore you to leave the task of the funeral to your council, at least for today.” A wisp of a grim smile tugged at the dark haired man’s lips. Automatically, he offered his arm to his wife whom stepped forward to stand at his side.

 

‘My wife is a beautiful woman.’ He silently acknowledged, still admiring of the delicate propriety that was characteristic of the house of the silver swans. Denethor absently noticed that Finduilas had changed from the gown that she wore this morning to the black dress more in keeping with that of his house. Her dark hair was now tamed under the dark veil she wore, which was a few shades lighter than her velvet gown. So gracious, such a devoted and fitting wife, yet still, “Where is my little prince?” Finduilas smiled softly, long used to the absolute preoccupation her husband had with their first-born. Still sometimes, in the privacy of her own chambers Finduilas worried over Denethor’s penchant to obsess.

 

She knew that there was nothing greater or more terrible than a father’s hopes for his son. And there was always the voiceless fear that disappointment would result in mutual bitterness. “Mithido is minding him. I thought to spare him at least a little while the news of Lord Ecthelion’s passing.” Abruptly the lady of Gondor flinched away from her husband as he tore his arm away from her grasp. She backed even further away as a black looked passed what she once considered Denethor’s handsomely stern features. Too enraged to care about his decidedly uncouth behavior, the pan-sovereign advanced his quickly retreating wife. Ecthelion’s councilors had left but minutes before, allowing the reticent only son of their fallen lord to mourn in peace.

 

Up until now, Finduilas never thought she would fear being alone with her husband. “You dare to presume to coddle the heir of this house? My son will not be crippled by the weakness of feeble women, get him now. Let him look upon the fate of all men.” A mother’s indignation welled within Finduilas’s throat. Their golden child had only seen 6 summers. Yet the violent promise in her once beloved eyes silenced her just as quickly. Her father did not rule here, and she herself was still too new to the white city to truly have devout allies within its walls. She would bide her time, and pray to the Valar for a solution.

 

* * *

 

Desmond was struck dumb. He could push aside his feverish hatred of once again being conscripted for a life he most definitely did not want. He could delegate the horror of being asleep for 3 million years. He could even afford to ignore that everything and everyone that he knew was gone, but what was being laid at his feet was an entirely different animal. Looking at all the little serene faces staring back at him made something in Desmond sick. “What exactly are you expecting me to do?”      

  **“As you are aware when it became clear that once again the destruction of earth was emanate, my creators, your ancestors set in to motion a series of events which has led you to what is now. The plan was to preserve what they could of themselves in the genetic material of these six, and repopulate by pairing them with compatible specimens.”** “That’s a stupid plan.” Desmond echoed the sentiment that he had stated so long ago. **“The plan was illogical,”** the computer program agreed. **“As such, I devised an alternative. Provide the six with a parental unit with suitable understanding of the actions taken by those who came before, and concrete experience with the results.”**

Denial sounded very good at this point, so Desmond indulged, “and this would mean me doing what?” Even though he couldn’t see her, Desmond could practically feel the Temple’s A.I. tilting her head to the side. **“Teach them.”** She instructed him as if this were a task even the dumbest smuck to ever exist could do. The rage swelling up around his self-preservation instincts made it easy to turn away from the six innocent lives sleeping unawares in their’ plastic prisons. It made it even easier to yell every foul thing he could possibly think of at his kidnapper.  And garbled within the mess of insults, and barbed questioning of her intellect and breeding, were Desmond’s reasons for objecting to Vesta’s plan.   

Vesta listened stoically, using eons’ worth of experience to transcribe what Desmond was saying into what he actually meant. Despite his obvious distress, the human’s points of contention were valid, she determined. She had no point of reference for what makes a good parent. The temple’s consciousness could gather, and analyze tremendous amount of data. But Vesta was restricted to the field of biology and ecology. Her creators had intended for her to protect and guide the six to the future her creators had designed for them, not appoint another to supplement what she thought necessary. And though she had some leeway in the selection of who she could take with the six, Vesta could not function beyond her original programming.

Vesta could not provide the emotional component that she determined her charges would need. But these shortcomings only strengthened the validity of her own hypothesis, though Desmond may think himself inept, Vesta was by far the worse option. **“If you do not, then I must.”** Vesta abruptly cut off the assassin’s tirade. The computer program rearranged her features into what her files catalogued as a remorsefully helpless stare. Desmond snorted, not at all fooled by the expertly mimicked expression. “I might have believed that look,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “if it wasn’t so stiff it makes my teeth hurt.” Not bothering to maintain the façade, Vesta nodded. **“And that is why it must be you.”** His dark head ducked, masking his discomfort.

But he could not hide the tenseness in his unclad form. Vesta’s sensors registered the faint goose pimples currently pebbling his arms, and almost microscopic flush of his skin. **“I cannot give them humanity. I am not human.”** The hologram glimpsed something of a bitter smile curving Desmond’s scared lip. “I’m not so certain; you sure do fuck up enough to be human.” Vesta cocked her phantom head, **“I do not comprehend your statement.”** His angst filled grin turned a touch feral, “This is not my fight. I don’t want to be here.” **“And yet you are here. You only have to ask yourself, what you are going to do about it.”** The assassin’s face lifted with an ugly grimace, ‘backed into a corner again.’

 

* * *

 

 

It had taken 9 months, 9 brutally tedious and assuredly laborious months of learning, cajoling, arguing, and finally outright threatening, Vesta was going to let him out of her temple. Desmond didn’t know how the last was any more effective that former, seeing as he spent the entire time in the buff. The former bartender had demanded his clothes back after their initial debate upon his waking, only for him to find out that the same tentacles that held him down while entering stasis cut his clothes off as well. And Vesta refused to return his hidden blade, for fear of Desmond doing something stupid. To say the least Desmond was too emotionally exhausted to kick up more of fuss than he already had.

 

Instead Altair’s descendent spent the rest his stay recovering, and pumping the A.I. for information. The need to survive took the place of his molten rage, and left barefoot of anything else, Desmond was keen on using the massive store of knowledge. It also had the added benefit of keeping the now bearded assassin from being dragged under by the ever present threat of the bleeding effect. The phantom of Altair’s personality was especially uneasy, as the man’s life was dictated by the rising and setting of the sun. Desmond often found himself unconsciously triggering the hidden blade that wasn’t there, cold fury gripping him, as he recalled more than a few times his arrogant ancestor being held against his will.

 

It was only when looking upon the sleeping ones that Ezio’s paternal instincts squeezed incessantly against the confines of Desmond’s chest, demanding things of him he didn’t understand. More often than not Desmond avoided even looking at his ‘students’ for fear that whatever definition-less action the remnant of Ezio wanted him to take would override the brown eyed man’s self control. So he asked questions, how far underground were they? How did Vesta keep track of everything whilst they were nowhere near the surface?

 

Vesta’s answers were as disturbing as they were informative. Apparently, an earthquake had dislodged the Abies from its original perch atop a hill over-looking the lake sometime after its landing. They were buried under tons of rubble, and would have remained so had it not been for the Anorian settlers. Desmond learned that humans had survived the destruction of earth. Some had even evolved to the same state as those who came before, and called themselves Ainur. The people who had discovered the Abies were their descendants, whom had claimed the piece of real-estate was their capitol.       

 

 In between the often spontaneous history/ geography/ anthropology lessons, Desmond worked to regain the strength he lost in his 3 million year nap. First the only remaining assassin explored the “ship quarters” where he and the 6 were kept. The “quarters” was surprisingly large, yet depressingly empty place. Besides the pods at the center of the “room” there were niches in the walls, housing bunks within them. Above the niches, were storage units, which could be reached by a metal ladder which had casters attached to the legs. Vesta had said that there were clothes inside them. He had cried foul when all he found was the practically see-through number he had glimpsed in Adam and Eve’s memory.

Vesta had sworn that the “birthday suit” was better than any **“inferior anthropoid manufactured textiles”** he had ever dressed in. And then proceeded to list all of the features, including and not limited to, **“atmospheric sensors ideal for retaining optimal body core temperature, a Carbon Nanotube weave throughout the garment, making it almost impossible to destroy, and microscopic robots that were designed to locate and destroy topical parasites.”** Desmond didn’t particularly care how many toys it came with, the birthday suit wasn’t an option if he and the six were going to survive this new world. 

 

As his endurance increased, Desmond wondered further and further from the quarters. Eventually, the former bartender began to use the entire ship as an obstacle, having Vesta rearrange the walls and floors around him as Desmond tried to reach “the command center” which doubled as the main space of her temple. But as he grew stronger, the former bartender grew more impatient. The vitamin enriched packets of slime he had to eat every few hours tasted like bile on his tongue. Time seemed all the slower with only the super computer, and the voices inside the assassin’s head as company. Desmond wanted out.   

 

Concessions were made on both sides, and after god knows how long without the solace of sunlight Desmond was about to see the world that he had learned about through the computer program’s spying. Of course he would have to wear the necklace Vesta had designed with the camera built into it, and wear the practically see-through body-suit to get outside, but as far as Desmond was concerned it was worth it. Staring steel daggers at the sealed entrance, the only surviving assassin tried his best not to fidget. Twitch worthy excitement had the now long haired human wanting to pry open the doors himself. But Desmond contained himself, lest his quasi warden come up with some other ridiculous argument against him leaving.

 

He waited patiently as he dare for Vesta’s all clear, and all but willed there to be no problems. The walls blocking Desmond’s freedom suddenly peeled away, shaking the ancient structure that he had inhabited for the better part of 3 million years. The air was stale yet unexpectedly dry considering the depth at which they were buried. He stepped out of the temple for the first time since his awakening, and was shocked at what he saw. What he expected to be a ratty man-made hole in the ground, with at best a few feet of clearance was in actuality a veritable treasure trove with obviously valuable items just sitting around the room.

 

Exposed shelves glittered with jewels under the soft light of the glow sticks Abies’s avatar provided him. Tall columns jutting out of the ground were completely enveloped in the curvy writing Desmond recognized from his lessons. Armaments were displayed in the procession of stern faced statues surrounding the only other exit. Vesta’s voice suddenly flowed through the discreet blue pendant, dangling from the end of Desmond’s equally unassuming chain. **“Though they were unable to breech the walls of the Abies, the Anorians, built a vault around our outer hull.”** The assassin move between the statues, flipping open chest lids as he went until, “jackpot,” he kneeled in the dirt, rummaging through the trunk filled to the brim with clothes.

 

**“Desmond you do not need those.”** Agitated, the dark haired assassin stopped his perusal of at least some form of clothing, to glare directly at the bubble around his neck. “You said blend, well I can’t very well blend if everybody I’m going to meet stares at me like I lost my fucking mind for walking around naked.” **“You aren’t-** “To these guys I will be, or did you or did you not say, that the people of Arda as a collective have a medieval mentality?” Desmond felt positively glorified when he forced the A.I.’s silence. Turning his attention back to his former task, Vesta’s chosen immediately began tossing articles he wouldn’t be caught dead in to miscellaneous corners.

 

Tunics longer than his knees, and flamboyant brightly colored shirts were instantly discarded, along with panty hose and soft bottomed shoes. Finally finding plain black pants, the assassin all but threw them on, hastily tightening the draw string so that they would fit his near skeletal waist. The deep cuffed shirt he found wasn’t nearly as non-descript, but the impact of the fine linen was lessoned under the thigh long, hooded black vest Desmond put over it. And when found a pair of high quality boots to wear, the assassin finally felt comfortable enough to look for other things he would need to outside his haven/prison. A wan but honest grin stole across Desmond’s chapped lips, things were finally going his way.  

 

 

 

 


	4. Welcome to Bree: The New Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond rejoins "civilization"

 

* * *

 

 

 

What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.- Aristotle

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**"Vesta talk"  
**

"Speak"

'thought'

_Past tense_

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Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Miss Independent by Kelly Clarkson, I walk alone by Saliva, and Are you That Somebody by Aaliyah.

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Chapter 4: Welcome to Bree: The New Arrival

 

 

The sun had barely risen in the land of Bree when a seamstress by the name of Sadaana was roused from her bed by the only friends she had in the whole of Eriador. Pervinca Greenthumb was a hobbit lass, born and raised in village of Straddle, just outside the Bree village proper. Unlike most her kin the pale haired hobbit was outgoing, and out-spoken. She was friendly with everyone unless they gave her cause to be otherwise. More often than not Pervinca earned looks of disapproval from her fellow hobbits, because she made friends amongst the big-folk who passed through the Prancing Pony. This was how Sadaana came to live there, and work for another hobbit, whom Pervinca introduced her to. 

Ennaido, Sadaana’s other friend was the wife of a stable-hand, and a laundress herself in the same shop Sadaana worked at. She and her husband Rorin were blessed with three sons, only one of whom had seen past his first year. Because they could not afford a nursemaid while they worked to feed and clothe themselves and their children, Ennaido often left the children with Sadaana on her days off. And though the heavy set woman wasn’t much older than former wanderer in appearance, Ennaido still thought of the fairly naïve woman as the daughter she never had.

It was also for this reason that Ennaido was determined to make a proper wife out of the fair-skinned Gondorian. Pervinca was an enthusiastic supporter of Ennaido’s attempts to get men of Bree to regard the beautiful but proud woman as marriageable. The lack of propriety on Pervinca’s part had left the poor lass with few suitors amongst her own people, who could appreciate her boldness. Sadaana knew that both of her friends merely wanted for not to die an old maid, and thus didn’t put up too much a fuss when they decided to bring up the topic of her bachelorette status. But looking down from her window Sadaana couldn’t help but think that this was getting out of hand.

Pervinca stood upon Ennaido’s shoulders, her hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice as loud as she dare. Both had maniacal grins plastered to their faces that Sadaana was long familiar with. “Are you daft? Not even the light of Ainur has kissed the ground yet, and you’re at my door.” She hissed down at them. In the halls of Minis Tirith the day rarely began early for ladies, and those in their service. And though she herself had gotten used to rising with the sun, that did not mean she liked it. The human and hobbit grinned toothily up at her, beckoning for Sadaana to leave to comfort of her tiny room in the inn to go to the hovel that was Ennaido’s home.

“Don’t be like that Sadaana, didn’t you hear? According to Grace Mr. Butterbur has received a guest in the night, a mighty handsome and well off guest at that. We have to get you ready before the vultures’ descend.” Sadaana valiantly fought the urge to throw something out her window at the all too perky Pervinca. Had she been awake enough to do so, the gray eyed seamstress would have laughed. Though Bree didn’t host a large quantity of pretty unattached women, there were still a number of shrewd and attractive local merchant daughters, who looked to marry older men whom did well for themselves, in the hopes of becoming rich widows.

They looked down upon those of the working class as little more than ignorant fodder that they could order around and belittle as they please. Sadaana rolled her eyes. The sycophants that were her “competition” couldn’t hold a candle to the political animals that occupied the white tower. Either way Sadaana had no inclination to play their petty games. “Come back at a reasonable hour, and I might consider it.” Getting up the tall woman closed her shutters, and dropped her dressing gown to the floor, determinedly ignoring the rocks being thrown at the only window in her small room.

Carefully navigating the now dark space, Sadaana easily found the solidly built dresser taking up most of the space in her room. On the dark lacquered surface there was soap, towel-let, and a bowl of water which the seamstress used to wash away the small amount of grime from her body. The lady within her cringed at using soiled water now, but Pervinca wouldn’t care if she were still in her pajamas. The hobbit lass would drag her out by her hair if it meant “helping Sadaana” get a husband. The tall woman quickly discarded her nightgown and used the water to bathe herself. She was more than a little aware of the current lack of rocks hitting her window.

Taking off her sleeping cap, Sadaana threw it on her small bed, which was shoved against the wall opposite of both the dresser, and door. She then quickly retrieved her linen chemise and spring gown, studiously ignoring the sudden and obnoxious knocks upon her door. Sadaana dressed quickly, and efficiently. The Gondorian didn’t even bother to let down her hair which was coiled atop her head in a single thick braid. She just opened her door, and allowed herself to be whisked away by her insistent friends.

* * *

 

Desmond stretched out. The kinks that developed in his back from sleeping on a bed filled with straw caused his joints to make sounds akin to machine guns going off in a Los Angeles shootout. Still he relished the slow ache that settled over the burn of his tired muscles. Ezio’s descendent hadn’t felt this alive since he had run away from The Farm in his youth. Though he still wore the necklace that Vesta had given him, the blank stare of his savoir/jailer laden with expectation was gone. And Desmond now only felt the rush of the moment, relearning how to survive outside the scope of anything resembling society.

Vesta had told him settlement of Bree when he finally convinced the A.I. to allow him out of the Abies. But once he found some form of freedom, the 24 year old was in no hurry to leave it. So he remained in the wild, on the fringes of the Brandywine for a little over 2 weeks. In that time Desmond lived off the land, eating berries Vesta identified as non-poisonous and catching fish from the river. At first, the dark eyed assassin thought he was once again in the grip of the bleeding effect, the stress of being so far away from anything vaguely familiar causing the memories to manifest suddenly and forcefully. It had taken Desmond days to notice in all the memories that there was the coldly familiar weight of a gun pressing tightly against his thigh.

It had taken him a week to notice the memories of his childhood mingling, and overlapping with Altair’s recollections of his own upbringing. It was disturbingly similar up until Desmond tenth birthday. That was when Desmond decided to abandon the path that he was born into; it was also at that age that Altair decided to stay. And when he wasn’t curled into a ball desperately trying to will away the intrusive thoughts and feelings Desmond was never more grateful to have ran. Shuddering, the travel-beaten man levered himself out of bed, and onto his boot-clad feet. Unthinkingly, the American shouldered on the white tunic he had worn the night before, and settling the hooded quilted jerkin over that.

From under his pillow, Desmond retrieved the only weapon he forced himself to carry. 10 inches of Anorian steel caught a sliver of light escaping the cracks of the shutters in the window. It was thin, only a half inch thick and un-adorned making it a perfect weapon for an assassin. Easily stowing away the stiletto in a bracer hidden under his voluminous left sleeve, Desmond began to make his way downstairs.  He had find work. The few gold coins he had brought with him wouldn’t support him for very long.

* * *

 

“Hold still child!” Ennaido scolded Sadaana as she attempted to weave tiny white flowers into her now loosed hair. Ignoring the mothering peasant, Sadaana glared balefully at Pervinca who snickered quietly as the hobbit put the finishing touches on her beaded shoes. The two intervening busy-bodies had dragged her to Ennaido’s home, and presented her with the gown she was now wearing. Sadaana contemplatively fingered the simple geometric brown damask of her trailing sleeves.

“I still think this too fine a work to waste on me,” she said ignoring the scoff that answered her. Sadaana could tell by the quality of the stitching the Bree woman head spent weeks making this surprise which was presented to her as a means to attract a handsome stranger, rather than a birthday celebration like it was intended. “You should have made it for yourself,” Sadaana persisted, “to wear for Rorin for the next market festival.” The former Gondorian’s mind supplied endless recollections of finer dresses, and even more extravagant parties. But to her the honest jubilation of the home she found far exceeded the dangerous frailty of the courts in Minis Tirith.

Sadaana had seen the rise and fall of both men and women within the span of a few sentences. She herself had been a pawn the political intrigue, and felt sick on herself with just thinking about it. The seamstress wondered what her father would think of her now, if he were to have seen her. For all the man’s love of her, could he have understood his middle child’s distaste for the world that she equally served, and loathed? Could forgive her for running when he already lost so many loved ones already? Sadaana didn’t think so.

“I’d only be a waste if you didn’t use that charm I know you have girl.” Ennaido drew Sadaana away from her deep thoughts with a grimace. The laundress finished with doing the gray eyed woman’s hair, moved to stand in front of the stool Sadaana sat on. The shapely woman clucked her tongue at the ugly look on the seamstress’s face. “Now none of that, you’re fit to be a right lady today. You’ll turn that mysterious guest’s head for sure. And Eru willing, love, marriage, and healthy children will soon follow.” Ennaido’s words sounded just as prophetic as they were damning to Sadaana’s ears.    

* * *

 

Desmond eyed his prospective employer with mild discomfort. Barliman Butterbur was by no means intimidating. But the mousy looking man was nosey to the tenth power. The assassin supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Bree wasn’t a city, and not being densely populated it was infinitely easier to keep track of people. Towns like this were bound to be tight-knit, or at least more closely linked. And being the new person in a rural town meant that wary curiosity was inevitable.  Knowing this however did not settle the unease rolling in Desmond’s gut. As a bartender, Desmond more often than not just became part of the scenery, and thus only afforded the cursory glance at best.

He had thought being behind a bar top again would ease the awkwardness that had Desmond almost always reaching for his blade. But alas Butterbur, while seemingly absentminded still asked questions that the assassin wanted left alone. It didn’t help that the dining room of the inn was curiously filled with spying eyes and ears so early in the morning. “Ye ain’t no ranger Desmond, if ye don’t mind me saying so. Ye don’t strike me as non them shady types, so why does a well to do man like you need work here for?” 

The only surviving human of the Earth before Arda felt an almost overwhelming urge to kill the man. Shaking his head, Desmond pathetically attempted to conjure up a small smile. “I’m just trying to set down roots is all Mr. Butterbur. I’ve lived out there,” The assassin made a deliberately vague gesture towards the general direction of outside. “So long, that I think it’s time to join civilization again,” he continued. It was complete and utter bullshit, but it was the only elaboration he was willing to give.

“Ahh, the maidens of Bree will be glad to hear it. A handsome lad like you would make a fine groom for any one of them.” Desmond definitely didn’t like the sly tone in the inn owner’s voice, nor did he even remotely care for the casual flick of the man’s grubby hands toward a giggling group of brightly clothed females. They took the innkeeper’s gestured as an invitation and joined them, giggling all the while. Upon closer inspection Desmond automatically rated them at (IP) on his internal screw-o-meter for illegal punany. None of those girls were anywhere close to 18, but to a man who hasn’t had any form of sex in over 3 million year anything with two legs and curious lack of diseases looked appealing.

* * *

Sadaana walked into the Prancing Pony as if she were going to her own execution, with her head held high, and her stomach taking residence in her feet. The ebony haired lady had stalled as best she could hoping that the two interloping partners in crime would give up. Instead Pervinca gave a sweet grin that had not an ounce of innocence in it. “It’s getting to be about breakfast time then. Why don’t you head back to the Pony, and get yourself some biscuits and broth?” Sadaana’s answering glare should’ve sent the little female running. But the loud groans of hunger pain her stomach were making took away any credibility to Sadaana’s stare. So the irritated and hungry seamstress returned to the inn, she could still go unnoticed if she acted naturally.    

Now looking at what the fuss was about, Sadaana had to admit, Bree’s newest arrival was a pretty thing to look at. The pale eyed woman could see at a distance that the man was as tall as her average countrymen, but that was where the similarities ended. This Desmond of the wilds obviously hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. His skin was almost insipid in its depth, and his frame garbed as it was in high quality apparel was still noticeably boney from a lack of nutrition. The tangled mess of dark brown hair hung around his gaunt face, too wild to tame with a brush, and too short to tie away from his face. A face she found no less handsome for the scar upon his lip, or the exhaustion that darkened his already near pitch black eyes.

Pity caused Sadaana to move without thinking. She could see that Bree newest mystery bachelor was surrounded by “the vultures” and quite uncomfortable by the amount of regard he was party to. The brightly dressed ladies paid no heed to the obviously hunted look on the haggard man’s face, too busy trying to capture his admiration. They chattered incessantly around him asking the poor man all sorts of questions, and rarely allowing him to answer. And worst of all, she could see bumbling Barliman Butterbur encouraging this behavior.

Sadaana’s unintended steps led her to the table where they sat, ignoring the sneers that twisted pretty faces whilst she called attention to herself. “Good morn Mr. Butterbur is breakfast ready yet.” Deliberately Sadaana arched a thin brow in a calculated expression, as if the Bree-lander had forgotten that he had other guest to attend entirely. The burley proprietor sputtered, pushing his seat backwards in a hasty move, apologizing as he quickly retreated to the kitchen. Sadaana quickly took the vacated seat, smiling at the nervous man beside her. The gray eyed lady might not have any inclination to press a suit, but she would help keep the vultures at bay.     


	5. Pesterings of a Motherhen Super Computer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn receives word about a mysterious foreigner from his kin, and Desmond finds himself in deep shit.

 

 

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place and it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t how hard you hit; it’s about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward.” -Rocky Balboa

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Musical inspiration for this chapter: Awake and Alive by Skillet, I won't back down by Eminem ft. Pink, King of Sorrow Sade

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_April 17, 2985_ _th_ _year of the Third Age_

_Estel, tidings from the Shire, Evendim, North Downs, and Moores are as the Lord Elrond fears. The presence of Orcs has increased exponentially for seemingly no reason. Agmar has become more active as of late, though I thank Oromë every day that none of the nine has been spotted as of yet. But still those of the witch kings fief have been more of a terrible burden upon us of Esteldin, whom have long labored against the shadow of Agmar. And worse still there are those of the foul ilk whom managed to infiltrate the North Downs all the way to the boarders of the Shire. For what purpose, I do not yet know._

_I also bring you tidings of a mysterious foreigner, who now frequents the Bree village proper. Desmond has the look of a Dunlending with Northern blood to pale his skin. He claims to have wondered about the Brandywine for a time. I find this suspect, as I have no reports of his likeness from any of our rangers in the whole of Eriador. He is wealthy enough to be recognizable._

_The man is generous with his coin which is of Annuminas origin. My own worst suspicion is that he is an agent of Agmar, come to spy upon those of Bree-land. He often wanders without any warning for days at a time, only to return just as mysteriously laden with fine goods of the abandoned city. When injurious minds see fit to ask the source of his fortune Desmond claims that it part of his inheritance._

_I have already attempted to set a watch upon this man, but to no avail. By whatever means he manages to slip by them, to wherever it is he goes to retrieve the treasures he brings back. And though "Whitehood" as many of the Bree-landers have come to call him, is viewed with almost as much suspicions as any ranger, his generosity affords him a certain benefit of the doubt. To this end my lord I know naught what to do, and am most desirous to hear you opinion on these grave matters._

_Sincerely- Halbarad of Esteldin_

 

Estel Elrondion gazed upon the words of his kinsman and friend with equal parts worry and agitation. Though he could not fault his fellow edain's caution, the foster son of Elrond knew Halbarad had overstepped himself. Regardless of the increasingly ominous presence of their enemy's forces, the captain of the gray company should have not let fear dictate his actions. These were times when even the gentlest of souls had cause to possess questionable skills if they were to survive. This Whitehood could just be as he said to be, from what little he reported of himself according to Halbarad.

Still the son of Arathorn trusted his subordinate's instincts. Though Halbarad might have naught save his own suspicion, and the dubious doings of his query to rely upon, there was still something there that Halbarad seemed to deem cause enough to send his liege word. "Are you well my lord?" The Dunedain looked up from the soiled stationary in his hand, to the young ranger currently in his company.

Niluana, like Halbarad was amongst his edain parents few surviving immediate kin. He was by no means related closely enough to be considered for kingship, but it didn't make Estel wish he was any less. "Halbarad's tidings of the black legions' movements are grave, though not unexpected. Orc presence has increased in the Bree-lands. But he also fears a spy amongst the village proper" The exiled king watched the hammer jawed youth contemplate his dilemma with a careful silence.

Niluana was very grave for a man of just 42 summers, Estel mused willfully ignoring the fact that he himself was only a good ten or so years the brunette's senior. "What does Halbarad know of this spy?" The stockier ranger asked. Estel knew that if Niluana so much as grunted, he already had an idea in mind, and was merely getting all the information he could to see if it was actually viable. The brown eyed ranger had existed in the cusp of battle, living with a contingent of ranger in Enedwaith bordering Dunland most of his life.

And it showed. In the crocked set of his prominent nose, in every jagged scar the peaked beneath his gear, Niluana was a soldier whose teeth were filed by the bite of steel. And Estel couldn't help but wonder how such a man could follow one such as himself. "Nothing much, there is little news of this Desmond, outside of his ventures in the village of Bree. Halbarad thinks him a Dunlending half breed." The former ward of Rivendell could see Niluana visibly hesitate. "Come, I would have the wisdom of your council."

For another beat the ranger held his silence then, "I could go to Bree, seek out the answers myself." The un-voiced questions in the man's tone both confused and worried Estel. Niluana wasn't prone to show it when he was anything less than certain. The younger edain began to subtly fidget. "It may be easier because I would know what to look for." Still the unease made the older ranger falter in automatically doing what Niluana suggested.

Estel was well aware that the wrong words from him now could cause the thoughtful man at arms to once again sink back into himself. "I have no authority in which to command you thus. Such a journey would take you from where you are needed. But I find this," Estel indicated the travel stained piece of paper in his hand, "is also of great concern." "My only doubts lay in your own my friend. Speak your mind truly. What troubles you?"

"I have no desire to leave Enedwaith," Niluana said immediately surprising them both. "Be that as it may, you are needed more here than I." The darkly garbed ranger raised his hand to stop the protest that he could see welling up in his captain's throat. "You would ask precious few to complete the task I intend for myself, none of whom you would ask are here my lord." The grizzled man felt his scared lip twitch into a miniscule smile as Estel's defiance swiftly turned to sheepishness. In a small way Niluana was glad his liege urged him to speak.

* * *

No one who knew Gromsnik would ever come to the conclusion that the Orc was remotely intelligent. That being said, despite his questionable I.Q. Gromsnik had a healthy survival instinct. He was a rarity in his species, Gromsnik was cautious. And it was this very facet of his own nature that enabled him to survive longer than those whom emerged on the same day. Orcs weren't created to think for themselves beyond the gratification of the kill. And those who were even suspected of such were often put to death.

So when his more bloodthirsty cohorts caught scent of human flesh, unlike them Gromsnik did not go tearing off after the unseen pray. He had no wish to die at the hand of his "prey", less want for dying at the hands of fellow Orcs to obtain said prey, and desired dying at the hand of his superiors who would do so just because, least of all. Black lips peeled away to reveal half rotted fangs. Gromsnik inhaled sharply, dissecting the smells currently crowding his orifice. The stench of blooming pine was easily filtered out along with the familiar flavor of sulfur soaked blood.

Gromsnik slowed down even more, but he dare not stop for fear of the nameless leader of his company noticing. There wasn't any edain blood wetting the air. The screams were also decidedly non-human. He still didn't dare to stop, whatever lay ahead was still less of concern compared to what Gromsnik already knew. Unconsciously the orc shuddered as the sensory memory of his "birth" shook his entire muscular frame. Still shaking, the vile creature made ready his crossbow, edging closer and closer to the battle he could only hear.

* * *

Desmond stepped forward, ducking under the broad axe swing of his soon to be dead assaulter. He didn't even blink as the stiletto curled within his fist found its way between the ribs of the creature that just tried to split his skull in half. Planting his feet to stop his forward momentum, Desmond's thin blade slide out, and the assassin had to quickly turn in order not to fall on his ass. The blind swing resulted in another hit, catching a thick necked orc right above its armor slitting its throat ear to ear.

Desmond's momentum continued, forcing the dark haired man to bend his knees in order to retain balance. Stiletto met Scimitar, and the inferior weapon was sent flying out of the lightly garbed man's grasp. Desmond hissed the tip of the soiled blade sliced through soft tissue, scoring deeply into the palm of his hand. Snatching the appendage away from further injury, the last assassin rapidly back-pedaled. He was barely able to avoid a bolt in the back, via surprisingly timid enemy. Desmond bit back a curse as another bolt flew over his head, missing the apex of his cranium by bare centimeters.

Rolling away from his only weapon, the assassin desperately tried to keep away from the slobbering menaces currently trying to kill him. Wary Desmond finally looked around at the carnage. Two dead orcs were crushed under foot of their two comrades who snarled and snapped at each other just as much as they did at him. The third giant hunk of snot hung back, his keen black eyes staring the hooded man down through the crosshairs of his weapon. Desmond edged sideways hoping to lure the most dangerous of the three closer.

Only the orc's weapon turned to follow him. Eagle dark eyes darted around, before once again settling on the beefy creature holding the crossbow. The curly haired wanderer could easily dispose of the two monsters trying to flank him. Neither showed any sort of proficiency with the weapons they were wielding, nor did either orc show any sort of intelligence to adapt to the lack of skill. Intimidation and size were these creatures main line of offense. Unluckily for them, Ezio, and Altair were anything but pushovers.

Shaking off the invading thought patterns, Desmond quickly closed the gap between him and the orcs. Kicking the closest solidly in the crotch, the assassin put the crippling distraction to good use, using the momentarily incapacitated evil creature as a shield against his comrades. Ignoring the sickening crack of a skull being punctured all the way through, Altair's descendant took hold of the now dead orc's weapon, and parried the thrust which would have otherwise spilled Desmond's guts all over the forest floor.

Keeping the dead body between him and the archer, Desmond lunged, taking a broad swipe at his opponent's legs. The Orc leapt back with a snarl, narrowly avoiding being taken out at the knees. And once again, the last assassin had to desperately maneuver his "shield" to avoid getting shot while retreating from the retaliatory swipe at his face. Ghosting muscle memory caressed already aroused autonomic nerves, equal parts guiding, and distracting him in this fight. Desmond knew that he had to end this confrontation quickly. His grip on the stinking carcass of his makeshift shield was tenuous at best.

Stubbornly, Vesta's former ward ignored the ragged parting of flesh gapping in the palm of his dominate hand. Harder to ignore was the viscous black blood, spilling over Desmond's hooded head and down his shoulders, soaking his skin through his clothes. The tar like consistency was going to be impossible to get out, thus insuring that Desmond was going to have to replace yet another set of clothing. Now more than ever the last assassin was glad that Vesta was silent throughout the confrontation.

He didn't want to hear about how the blood would have never penetrated "the birthday suit" or how much better off he would be wearing it, instead to the inferior textile weave. Still, the coco eyed former run away knew Vesta was watching. He just hoped the soft glow of the pendant tucked away under his shirt didn't prove fatal. A wry grimace revealed the gleaming enamel of his teeth, as Desmond made another bid at getting extremely close to his opponent, while slashing from the opposite direction just as fast.

Distracted, the orc was crushed under the weight of Desmond's meat shield. The assassin unceremoniously dumped the dead body on top of the orc, and awkwardly rolled away to avoid yet another bolt being planted in his cranium. Once again grabbing the first weapon he could get a hold of, the former New Yorker didn't give the downed muddled skinned monstrosity a chance to get up. Desmond lobbed a stone almost the twice the size of his fist at the orc's head, scoring a gory victory. And again ducked for cover, 'I am going to survive this.' Desmond all but commanded of himself.

* * *

"My lady." "Your grace." "Your ladyship." "Sweet lady." Finduilas daughter of Adrahil barely managed to properly acknowledge the addresses she received from the inhabitants of her gilded cage. It had been months since the veil of affection for her husband had been pulled from the former lady of Dol Amroth's eyes. And yet the ugliness that she now knew seemed to know no end. Where once Denethor's stern lordly manner only made the pale noble woman want to kiss away his dour frown, now it was all that Finduilas could do not to flinch away in horror.

Denethor's outburst notwithstanding, the Stewart of Gondor had made no effort to restore the illusion of the chivalrous man that Finduilas had consented to marry. Instead her dark eyed husband had become even stricter than when she first took up her duties as his wife. It had been Denethor whom chose her ladies in waiting, and appointed their household staff. Both tasks which by right of wifehood were hers, and yet she thought it out of concern for her, that Denethor did this. Finduilas was young, and new to the city. And with such a stern husband like Denethor, what better gift than to lighten the burden of duty?

Now catching the intent looks following her, did the darkly haired lady understood. It was all about control. Every person in Finduilas's tenure that swore their fealty to her reported her every move to Denethor. Every action was carefully noted and categorized, not for courtly gossip, but for careful dissection under their lord's scrutiny. Just the thought of it made Finduilas ill. As her husband the current pseudo-ruler of Gondor had a disturbing amount of power over his wife. He all but controlled where she could go, whom she could associate with, and worse still her physical being and care.

Already she had been called into account for "misconduct" toward the Eleanor Serni. The lady of Lebennin, like most courtiers was particularly similar to ripe fruit, sweet and perfectly good to eat, right up until you bit into the rotten core. The lady Serni was perfectly even tempered and pleasant company, even as every poisonous bit of gossip passed her painted lips. Finduilas had always found interacting with the vain woman to be a chore, but in this particular instance had tried the dark eyed woman's nerves beyond Finduilas's limits.

_**Flashback** _

_Corsairs of Umbar could lay siege from the sea, and Agmar could empty of ever foul creature to lay waste to the lands of men, but nothing would shake the hospitality of a proper purebred lady. Where once Finduilas would have laughed at her dearly departed mother's statement, now the Stewart's wife only found a grim sort of determination. Across from Finduilas sat Eleanor, garbed in subtle beaded refinement currently favored by the ladies in the Gondorian court. And with every sugary sweet bit of viscous smattering word being crammed through her eardrum, Finduilas found it to be just a bit harder not to snap._

_It was her duty to entertain the guest of their great house as their husbands discussed matters of state. And though Finduilas was more inclined to entertain ideas of throwing Eleanor off a cliff, and her parasitic piranha out on their backsides, the more somberly dressed lady held her temper. "You'll have to forgive me Lady Eleanor for not putting much stock in rumors; Mr. Brenan has served admirably as first amongst the tower guard. And I would think such excellent service would not be lost on my lord husband."_

_The condescending pity that greeted her defense of the well-liked vanguard was as unsurprising as it was infuriating. "Poor dear," the affectionate term never sounded so sour, "Mr. Brenan's service excels all expectations, but a little bird told me that is why he is being assigned to a more fitting post. Besides, everyone knows that his lady wife already associates with rangers of Ithilien. It's too bad your sister-in-law Alagmariel did not survive to marry the lord Pinnath Gelin, else I am sure Mr. Brenan would go with more than his grace's blessing."_

_Finduilas was no fool, she could easily pick up on the innuendo latent in the courtier's tone. In just three sentences, the factious woman had managed to insult the three people Finduilas admired most in Gondor. Brenan Whitehood was no noble born or man of the commons. He was far worse in the eyes of those intolerant lords and ladies whom only inherited their' power through their' families, a bastard of already married Gondorian noble and a woman, whose identity to this day remained a mystery._

_It was an insult that many a noble couldn't bear, that a bastard could distinguish himself, and actually marry well. Brenan's wife Morwen was of the Alagdor, the fallen house that once ruled Ithilien, now the few members that survived were conscripted rangers. That fact didn't lesson the sting that a bastard would dare wed a highborn lady. It left a bad taste in Finduilas's mouth, "If such an assignment were issued, I should think my lord would give more than his approval." Finduilas injected as much steel in voice as she dare, knowing the lives of noblemen rested largely on the whisperings of their wives._

_A word from his fiery haired wife, and the Lord Serni would speak out against giving any support to the rangers of Ithilien just to spite Brenan. Finduilas forced down the urge to fist the skirts her silk peacock gown. Denethor's hatred of anyone whom distinguished themselves under his father's reign was well known. The only thing stopping the gray eyed lordling was that he hadn't found anyone good enough to replace the man. 'But given incentive', Finduilas once again forced herself to act normally, taking a judicious sip of her wine, not daring to complete the thought._

_Eleanor's smile widened cruelly, "one can only hope the wisdom and righteousness of the council will prevail."The innocent sentiment was met with quiet agreement from the hanger-ons of the lesser ladies listening in on their conversation. However Finduilas found that she could no longer stomach it. Abruptly standing, the lady of Gondor compelled herself to tilt her head respectfully in her guests' direction. "Forgive me Lady Serni. I feel quite faint all of sudden, and would retire until a later date."_

_Finduilas knew that the excuse was flimsy at best, and would reflect badly on her husband. But she had not the heart to care. Not waiting for Eleanor to respond, Finduilas silently gestured for her attendants to follow, as she swept out the hall in which she received her guests. Boromir's mother couldn't have known what the insidious whispers that followed her to her private quarters would cost her. She was even less aware of the conflicted eyes that served her silence, would soon serve her husband with honeyed venom._

* * *

"You will have to start making arrangements for the six soon." Desmond didn't even pause as he poured a bucket full of ice cold pond water over his head, automatically shaking as the chill reached his bones. "The power I have left is extremely limited. Already my fusion cells output capacity has decreased 60%, and if it drops by 20 more, the six will have to be resuscitated regardless of you stage of preparation." The assassin cut his teeth against the almost overwhelming urge to retort. Usually when Vesta dined to contact him, the darkly haired man merely chose to ignore her until she finally gave up. "I will not be able to assist them. They will die Desmond." Too bad the super computer didn't see fit to be ignored today.

"Have you tried finding an alternative power source?" Desmond pushed himself to his feet, leaning away from the shallow channel that he had used to wash away the gore of black blood. Orcs weren't uncommon in the wilds of the North Downs, but it was no less taxing for Desmond, who was of the habit of leaving Bree to escape his nosey neighbors. The last assassin bent over to retrieve the sticky odorous concoction he had placed next to his now empty bucket.

"Any alternative source of power I could possibly use would require alteration of the Abies. There is currently no one in existence that can make those alterations." Desmond felt something in his chest knot, slowly squeezing breathe from his lungs. Despite Vesta's talent for understatement, her former charge knew exactly what she wasn't saying. Vesta was dying. And not for the first time, the assassin silently fumed at the presumptuous ineptness of those who came before.

One would think that geniuses who came up with the ship would have built her to last. Swallowing the spiteful commentary volleying back and forth through his already strained psyche, Desmond set to treating his injured hand. The paste wouldn't properly seal the wound, but the assassin didn't have any supplies for stitching. "What changes would be most viable in your current condition? And before you remind me there isn't anyone who can do it, you aren't worm food yet. I'll be back at the Abies soon, and then you can walk me through what needs to be done."

"Solar power would be the least complicated, and will require the least amount of material to execute. I will contact you with a list of substitutes for the parts that can't be converted here." "Ghramh," he said not even realizing that he was speaking Arabic, "ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn." The light in his pendant faded, signaling the end to their "conversation". Still, Desmond knew that he would have to go back to the Abies before he returned to Bree. Involuntarily his injured hand twitched, the assassin really didn't want to deal with Vesta's particular form of whining.

* * *

**Translations**

Ghramh- Fine

ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn.- may your way be clear, your blade swift, and you feet silent

* * *


End file.
